For whatever it is in her that makes her think the wind is hilarious – for gasping sharp intakes of wonder filled-and-full baby breaths and the tuft of hair that stands on end, waving like a flag, or a victory, or joy.
For the gentle layer of wool smell that settles over this town, the damp and the seeping, the washing away.
For the curl of smoke from silent chimneys, for crackles, for flame licks, for sparks.
For the breakable hearts you’ve given, the way they bleed, the way they yearn.
For precious minutes of glorious sleep.
For a glutton’s bounty of things that taste and smell and look and feel of pumpkin – for the sweetly baking things, the garden crawling, the coffee sipped.
For the necessity of friendship and its unparalleled ability to mend, to build, to sustain.
For your echo in all things – you name on shivering lips, your spirit in busy classrooms, your movement in dying trees.
For sock-cozied nearly-toddling toes, for the patience of dogs.
For the will and ability to dance.
For these things, for the wildly always wonder that you are.